Social Lives – An Excerpt

THE HALSTEADS

Jacqueline Halstead rushed out of the bedroom to the study in the adjoining suite. The briefcase was on her husband’s desk, closed, and as had been his practice over the past several weeks, locked. That had been the ?rst piece of hard evidence, this practice of securing his briefcase at home, though it had taken her far too long to see it for what it was. Evidence. The moodiness, the weight loss, the late nights had ?nally brought the picture into focus.

Her movements were carefully devised and practiced. She positioned herself around the briefcase, then made a note of the numbers on the lock: 70412. He was changing the combination daily now, though she knew from his demeanor that the distrust was not meant for her. She had a ?nely tuned sense for these things, for detecting the truth within an embrace, a look. No. He trusted her, she was certain. It was not the fear of being discovered that had him twisted in so many knots, but instead the guilt of a caring man. His wife, their children, and all that was at stake were the worries that were eating at him from the inside. And still the lock was changing.

Thinking back over the past months, she realized how tightly she had closed her eyes, not wanting to see, not wanting to believe that the life that had lifted her out of darkness could itself be in peril. She had become complacent over the years, trusting and as close to carefree as her history would allow. She had come to think of her past as something she had shed, like a snail outgrowing its shell and slipping into a new one. Her stupidity was maddening.

There was a saving grace. Her pro?ciency at seeing into the hidden corners of a life, especially her own, had not completely vanished. Not even with seventeen years of being Mrs. David Halstead. The wires of suspicion were still there inside her head, the ones set in place by a childhood of fear. And now thoughts moved across them freely, the consequences of different scenarios weighed. Plans of escape devised.

She took a long breath and listened again for the shower. With her children and nanny at a movie, and their dog, Chester, locked outside, the house was unusually quiet. The shower, with its oversized head and powerful jets, was still pounding against the marble tiles, broken only by the body of her husband as he moved about, unaware that his wife was breaching his trust for the third time in the course of a week. With nothing but a towel wrapped around her slender body, her long dark hair dripping wet on her face, she turned the knobs with shaky hands. One after the other, she entered the digits of the fail-safe code that had come with the briefcase. She finished the code sequence and popped open the lock. Her movements quicker now that she was committed to the treason, she flipped through the papers, sorting out the work documents from those related to the U.S. Attorney’s investigation. The letter was still there, tucked deep within a back compartment. re: Investigation of Halstead, Whittier, et al. David’s firm. The government had not filed any charges, satisfied at the moment to make inquiries about the location of certain funds. Nothing had made it to the public eye. Not yet. And as far as she could tell, only a handful of the investors in David’s hedge fund suspected that their money might have been mishandled. None of this concerned her as profoundly as the name on that letter. She looked at it again, as though seeing it there in the bold black ink one more time would make her believe it any more or less than she did. David Halstead.

Working quickly, she found what she’d been looking for—a new letter. It was the ?rst one in eight days, and it was not from the government. This one was from a law firm, one she’d heard of because of its reputation for high-profile criminal defense work. Dirty cops. Public corruption. And now her husband. She reached for a pencil, wrote down the name of the lawyer who’d signed the letter. She jotted down the numbers of federal statutes that were being threatened. There would be little time now, so she worked furiously, trying to analyze what she could, writing down the rest. She felt her stomach tighten, but she forced herself to continue as though she were not reading the blueprint for her own life’s destruction.

Finishing the last paragraph, she tucked the letter back where she’d found it, then made a quick study of the briefcase contents. She pulled some papers up, others down, until she was as certain as she could be that they were laid out the way she’d found them moments before. The sound of the shower dying to a drizzle made her stop by re?ex, but there was no time. She willed herself to move faster now, to concentrate as she pulled down the lid of the case, clicked the clasps into place, then spun the number dials back to 70412.

Outside the study, she felt it again, the wave of panic as she held the door. Was it open or closed, the study door? A small detail, but one more detail that would have to be explained. And it was just that very thing, the slow disintegration of explanations, that had given David away and could easily work toward her own exposure.

“Jacks?” he was calling for her. She’d left the bathroom the moment he’d stepped into the shower, and by any accounting, she should now be in her closet dressing for the nursery school benefit.

She didn’t answer—if she could hear him, she would have no excuse for her absence other than being in a place she had no business to be.

Think! But her mind was on the letter, the notes in her hand, and the work that needed to be done. She would scan their bank statements, the web-like array of the family’s personal investments, their 401(k), their only nest egg after all this family-raising was said and done and they were put out to pasture by a world that favors the young. There was little equity in the house after the loan for the new wing they’d put on last year, and the severe drop in the housing market. Nothing remained in the checking account beyond what was needed to pay the bills. Where could it be, the money that was missing from the fund? And why, good God, why, would David take it?

Closed. She felt the air reach her lungs. The study door had been closed. She turned off the light then pulled the door shut, turning the knob to slide it into place without a sound.

The hallway was quiet again. With light steps, she returned to the bedroom where David was standing inside his closet, dry and partially clothed in boxers and a fresh undershirt. He was visibly distracted, and Jacks knew in that instant that she had not been discovered.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” he said to her without turning around.

He was so thin now, she could see his ribs protruding through the cotton undershirt.

“I won’t be long.” Sitting on the bed so she could slide the notes under the mattress, she kept her eyes glued to his back. She felt the sickness in her gut, the same restlessness of an insurgent that she’d had for days now. That was what she had become, an insurgent in her own life, a spy embedded within her own family. In every room it followed her—the bright, sun-filled kitchen, the cozy family room, the delicate pink enclaves of her three daughters. The places that had been her haven, that had held her in the embrace of comfort and safety, were now the places where she had to hide what she knew, what she felt. And with every breath her husband took, she waited for him to drop the bomb.

David was humming as he moved about his closet, surely out of nerves.

He was a good man, no matter what he’d done. He loved their children as much as she did, and it would be killing him to know that their fate might be sealed by whatever crimes he had committed. Their reliance on him had been the unwritten contract between them, the standard agreement between men and women in places like Wilshire. Husband works. Wife tends to the house, children, and the husband’s needs. And she had done that, produced three children, overseen their care, managed the house. She had cultivated one of the most envied social lives in Wilshire. They were close friends with the most coveted family in this town, the Barlows, and that had been her doing. Hours of lunches, exercise classes, reading groups, and school benefits. From the book fairs to the nail salon, she had done the social research and placed herself wherever she needed to be. Getting to this position had been her job, and she had done it well.

That they would lose all of that was a given, and she didn’t care. Everything she’d done for them socially had been calculated to keep David happy so he could do his job—the one that brought home the money. And it was the money that paid for the rooms, the schools, the happily-ever-after. That was the end goal of the professional’s wife. They had nothing without the job, which was the very thing David had placed in jeopardy. Even if he avoided prison, no one would ever trust him again. And for Jacks, the working world was as far gone as her own childhood. It had been more than seventeen years since she’d earned a paycheck as a waitress. What would she put on her résumé now? Still attractive after bearing three children. What about her perfectly decorated house? Her trendsetting taste? Her honed sense of timing that made it possible for her to get so close to the Barlows? No. None of that would be worth a damned thing. After seventeen years, she would return to the workforce exactly where she’d left it. If they really lost everything, if David went to jail, how could she raise three children on the salary

of a middle-aged waitress?

She was in her closet now, moving robotically from section to section as she chose the various items. Undergarments, skirt, blouse, shoes. She could smell David’s cologne drifting in from the bathroom, and it brought back, for the smallest moment, the feeling of him—David the man, beyond the provider, the father. There had been times when he’d held her and she’d felt herself lost in his strength, his certainty, when he’d been able to reach behind the curtains where she kept her true self, the one with the memories and the pain. And in those instances, she had believed that the struggle could ?nally end, that her life might actually be what it appeared from the outside. Good. Happy. Normal. She inhaled deeper and pulled back the tears that were starting to come. No matter what he meant to her outside all of this, she could not leave her life, and the lives of her girls, in his hands. She would not lay herself down in the arms of faith. That was not the way of a survivor.

She’d been through it in her head and kept coming back to the same conclusion. Seventeen years ago, she’d let go of her raft, the one that had kept her afloat but could never fight the tide, and climbed onto David’s cruise liner. If what she believed now was true—if that ship was about to go down, taking her and the kids along with it—then it was time to find a lifeboat.

THE BARLOWS

“Do it, Daddy! Do it!”

Melanie Barlow screamed with excitement, her four-year-old body jumping up and down at the edge of the pool.

“Should I do it?” her father teased. He was standing at the end of the high diving board, dripping wet, and smiling at his audience.

Two more small voices joined in. “Do it, Daddy! Now!”

Seated in a lounge chair a bit farther back from Mellie and her twin brothers, Caitlin Barlow pretended not to care, her ear glued to a cell phone. At fourteen, she was old enough to see all this for what it was, and had recently grown tired of her father’s juvenile efforts to endear himself to his children. Then, of course, there was the deep trouble in which she now found herself, and the way it had trapped her inside a vault constructed from defiance and shame.

“I’m gonna do it!” Ernest Barlow threatened one last time before leaping spread-eagle from the diving board. As he sailed through the air, the shrieks of his children ?lled his ears until he hit the water with a loud smack and sank beneath its surface.

Nine-year-old Matthew was impressed. “Aw, man, that’s gotta hurt!”

The smaller of the twins, John had suddenly taken to repeating every word Matthew spoke, and now agreed wholeheartedly. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“Shut up!” Caitlin yelled from the lounge chair, shaking her head at the escalation of her father’s immaturity, and her own annoyance at his attempt to balance the scale against years of absence.

Ignoring their sister, as was common practice, the three young ones gathered near the deep-end ladder, staring into nine feet of dark blue-gray water that, to their eyes, was as mysterious as the depths of the ocean. Mellie moved closer, leaning over to get a better view of the bottom. Her brothers followed, and Matthew grabbed on to the straps of his sister’s suit to keep her from tumbling in. It was then, and only then, that their champion appeared, pop- ping out with a loud roar from the edge where they were standing, scaring them into hysterical laughter.

They parted as their father climbed out, making room for him to pass through their ranks and ?nd a towel. It was late fall and the air was crisp, sneaking in through the glass walls that enclosed the pool complex.

Barlow (as he liked to be called—partly because the alternative was Ernie, and mostly because he could get away with it) dried his face, then wrapped the towel around his broad shoulders.

“Well?”

Matthew and John offered their hands for high ?ves. “Awesome!” Matthew said.

His echo followed in short order. “Awesome!” John was smiling, his eyes wide.

“Check out this belly!” Barlow opened the towel to reveal streaks of red against golden flesh from forehead to knees. He tousled Mellie’s hair. “Pretty gruesome, huh?”

Mellie nodded as she took it in, not sure what she thought of their glee at watching their father hurt himself, and his willingness to do it. Then there was the inevitable influence of Caitlin, whose response, though unwelcome, seemed inherently more appropriate.

After a moment, her father’s need, which was innately felt by the four-year-old, rushed in, forcing a smile to gather around her plump cheeks and eventually overwhelming her. She fell into his arms and gave him a hug. “Good, Daddy.”

Barlow kissed her forehead, his eyes glancing ?rst through the glass walls to the stone mansion in the distance, and then to his oldest daughter.

“Want to better that, Cait?” His tone was sarcastic, drawing a carefully perfected look of disgust that was as brief as it was cutting.

Caitlin Barlow rolled her eyes, then looked away as she dialed up the volume of her own voice on the phone call.

“I can’t tonight,” she said into the phone. “I have to help babysit.” Again, the disgust resounded in the early evening air like a silent predator, circling around Barlow and the younger three. She couldn’t stop her father from employing his tactics, but she could infiltrate each maneuver, dispensing a subtle sense of doubt that would stand between Barlow and his children’s love like an invisible bullshit shield. And given the suddenness of the change in his daughter’s overall disposition, Barlow was at a loss as to how to dismantle it.

A soft monotone voice seeped from a small post built into the stone tile floor. It was Rosalyn Barlow, the mother, whose interruption of their fun had become a daily occurrence.

“It’s seven o’clock. Time to come up.”

Letting go of little Mellie, Barlow seized the moment. “Darnit! And I was just about to try one on my back.”

Matthew’s eyes were still on the post, as though his mother might somehow appear and catch up to her voice like thunder to a lightning bolt. “You have time! Do it, Daddy!” he said.

“Yeah, do it, Daddy!” John was at his side, tugging at his suit and looking at him with pleading eyes.

Barlow shook his head, feigning regret. “No, no. Mommy’s the boss.

Grab your towels, and let’s go.”

His answer came as no surprise to any of them, least of all Mellie, who was already walking outside to the golf cart that would deliver them back to the house.

Not one of them needed reminding that Mommy was the boss, and enforcing her rules to the disappointment of his children was as much a part of Barlow’s self-amusement as was breaking them.

Barlow gathered kids, towels, goggles, and shoes, then loaded everyone into the golf cart.

“You coming?” he said to Caitlin.

She took a long second to excuse herself from the call, then placed her hand over the receiver. “I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself. The boss and I are leaving at eight. It’s your behind if you’re not ready.”

Caitlin waved him off. “Whatever.”

As he climbed beside the driver, Barlow sized up the battle. There’d been points on both sides, but overall, he felt victorious. The young ones were happy, and he would now leave this new war with the girl who’d become a “teenstranger” to the more capable adversary waiting inside the house.

“Move over, Roger, and watch how it’s done,” he said, smiling now. In a few minutes there would be dinner, baths, homework for the boys, then bed. He listened to his children giggling behind him, and he knew. The fun was over, but at the end of this day, the fun was all they would remember.

From the window in her dressing suite, Rosalyn Barlow watched the cart bump up and down across the sprawling lawn as it made the long journey from the pool. Having pushed aside the driver, Barlow was at the wheel and moving fast to impress the kids as they shivered through their wet towels. With nothing on but a suit and towel, his dark overgrown hair blowing wildly against his tanned, unshaven face, he looked like a child himself. And at forty-five years of age, looking like a child meant looking like an idiot. Still, it suited him, Rosalyn supposed as she moved to her vanity table to ?nish her makeup. My brilliant billionaire idiot husband. She leaned forward to study her eyes, holding them perfectly still to apply a light brown liner. They were, she liked to believe, the eyes of her mother—almond shaped, pale green. Calm. Steady. Even with Barlow’s hooting and hollering coming within earshot and the image it provoked of him swerving about, tearing up the grass and endangering the lives of her children, she could hold their expression. Their absence of expression.

She finished the liner, replaced the plastic top to the pencil and gave the mascara a slight shake. He was a complete child now, wasn’t he? It was more an acknowledgment than a judgment, and was perfectly justified. The onetime workaholic entrepreneur was now a very wealthy, but retired, little boy. Every purposeless day brought with it further regression toward infantile behavior. Then there was the alcohol. Cocktails at five. Cocktails at six. Cocktails all night until he passed out in a pool of sweat and drool on her fine upholstery.

She brushed on the mascara, then dabbed her lashes with a tissue to remove the small pearls of liquid that had failed to spread evenly. Leaning back, she placed the cap on the mascara and twisted it between her long manicured fingers.

Late nights playing poker. Driving around in that ridiculous Creamsicle-orange Corvette. Golf and tennis all summer. Paddle tennis and skiing all winter. The hockey league. Hockey, of all the blessed things. A long sigh sneaked out of her body before she could catch it, and she felt herself shudder, as though she could shake off the source of its inception. She leaned into the mirror again and checked the stillness in her eyes. Good, she thought. We’re just fine. She studied her skin tone, pale ivory, before selecting the lipstick.

Caitlin hadn’t been in the cart. Of course not. Her oldest daughter had remained behind in an effort to avoid her father. She would stay there, Rosalyn imagined, just long enough to cause them to worry about being late to the benefit. Yes, she would appear just in the nick of time for babysitting duty, which was, in fact, little more than a contrived punishment. Their two nannies could easily handle the children. Still, there had to be some consequences after what had transpired. A soft red, just a few shades beyond her natural lip color. It would go with the neutral silk blouse and beige suit. It had been two days. Everyone would know, and even if they didn’t, Rosalyn had to make that assumption, and the decisions that followed. They would not decline the bene?t. Regard- less of the humiliation—which was appropriate and which she would have to display (within reason, of course)—they would attend and hold their heads high. And of course, support Mellie’s school. The Barlows were dignified survivors of this little tragedy. That was what they would leave behind when they politely excused themselves before the dancing began. Dressed conservatively in her neutrals, discreet makeup, pinned-back blond hair, and nothing to adorn her lovely hands but a simple gold wedding band, Rosalyn Barlow would let them all have their moment of glee. If she didn’t do it now, her ?rst real outing since the tragedy, they would hunger for it like savages. No—she had to throw them a bone. Then she could get on with the work of rising above it all.

She heard the cart pulling around the side of the house. She listened as the team of young Polish nannies bounded down the steps from the servants’ quarters to meet the children. Then the outside door closing, and those heavy accents. “Give to me towel….Upstairs wid you, Miss Mellie…. Out of wets suits.”

She pressed a tissue to her lips, peeled it off, and checked her face one last time. She practiced a smile, went over in her head her carefully concocted responses to any comments she might have to endure. Are you all right? How’s Caitlin? How’s Barlow handling it? Rosalyn adjusted her face slightly. Pleased with the expression, she committed it to her memory, then rose from the table. She was ready when her husband entered the room, out of breath and dripping wet. His face was ?ushed with the thrill of childish antics and the cool evening air.

“We’re leaving at seven thirty, darling,” Rosalyn said sweetly.

Barlow pulled off his swimsuit, dropped it on the antique oriental, then used his towel to dry his hair. Naked in the middle of their room, he answered his wife. “I thought it started at eight.”

Rosalyn stood before him, seemingly indifferent to the exposed genitalia that were jiggling about as he toweled off the mop on his head.

“We should get there early tonight.”

Barlow looked up, puzzled. “Early?”

“We should be the ?rst ones there.”

“Aren’t we always the last ones there?” The question was rhetorical. Still, Barlow couldn’t imagine what the hell she was up to now.

“Yes, darling, you’re right. We usually are. But tonight, we will be the ?rst ones. And we’re taking my car, if you don’t mind.”

Suddenly aware of his wife’s eyes upon him, Barlow stopped drying his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. He studied her as she stood there before him, arms draped delicately beside her petite frame in a demure pose, bland outfit, flat shoes. Her hair was unusually casual, her face colorless. And where were the jewels he’d bought her? It was calculated, he knew. Everything his wife did was carefully planned to achieve some end result, though it was rarely apparent to him until the plan bore its fruit. He thought about this night. Nursery school benefit. They’d been to a dozen of them over the years. With the oldest boy away at prep school, it hardly seemed possible they still had to massage the preschool system. It was so very contrived. Parents got to meet one another—though this was a joke, since you had to know everyone to get into the damned place. And Rosalyn practically owned this school. She chaired the board. She donated half the operating budget. She hired, she fired, and hers was the final stamp of approval, or rejection, for the wee little applicants dying for a spot at Wilshire’s finest

learning institution for the under-five crowd. This was her show, and if he was remembering correctly, this was usually her night to shock and awe. Then it hit him.

“Holy shit.” He was rubbing his face, now in a state of genuine disbelief.

“What?” Rosalyn asked coyly, though she’d enabled the battle that was coming and was fully prepared to wage it.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“What?” she asked, more fervently this time.

“Is this about Cait…?”

Rosalyn waved him off as though she were surprised at the accusation.

“Oh, don’t even—”

“Don’t even what? This is all about Cait, isn’t it? The clothes and hair. Taking your car. Arriving early.”

“And what if it is?”

Barlow was stunned. How was it possible he kept overestimating his wife?

“I thought this was over. She had her day of suspension. She met with the counselor. For Christ’s sake, how long is this going to be an issue?”

Rosalyn crossed her arms now, though her face remained calm. Barlow, who kept his head conveniently buried in the sand, would never understand the subtleties of their world. “This is our ?rst night out after—”

“After what? You think anybody cares about this? She’s a teenager….”

“Uhh…” Rosalyn was on the verge of being disgusted by her husband’s ignorance. She took a breath to retrieve her composure. Then she struck.

“Our lovely teenager was caught in a stairwell with a boy’s dick in her mouth. She’s our daughter. Believe me, Barlow, everyone cares!”

Barlow stood before his wife as the vulgarity of her words encircled his head. This was her best move, the one he usually forgot in the face of her perfect breeding and honed aloof ness. Just when one was expecting a delicate pearl of wisdom, she could drop something like this, something so dreadful and ugly, yet delivered with a silky tone. It was downright eerie.

“You’re right about one thing: She’s our daughter. And I don’t want this whole twisted, morally corrupt town to think we’re ashamed of her.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

Barlow’s face was red with the heat of anger. “Of course it is, Rosalyn.

You’re showing contrition. Why don’t you put on a red dress with a neckline to your navel, and we’ll dance on the tables! I mean, fuck ’em if they think they’re better than us just because our daughter was the one who got caught!”

Rosalyn let out a long sigh and unfolded her arms. “I’m not ashamed of our daughter. But if we don’t do this my way, it won’t be over. If you want it to be over, shave, shower, put on a blue blazer, and get in my car by seven thirty.” Her voice was calm, her face steady. She was right, and somewhere inside him, Barlow knew it. Whether or not he liked it was another matter altogether, and not one with which Rosalyn was overly concerned at the moment.

She walked past him, leaving him naked, standing on the wet carpet. When she was gone, her footsteps no longer heard against the wooden staircase, Barlow shook his head and accepted the defeat. He walked to the table in the corner, where he kept a snifter of scotch, and poured himself a large glass. As he let the alcohol settle his nerves, he peered out the window onto his estate. Good fortune had brought them significant wealth. They were the wealthiest family in Wilshire, the wealthiest town in the country. In the whole goddamn country. There was no way this was what life should look like after all that accomplishment. A wife he couldn’t understand. Boredom. Loneliness. And now a daughter whose teen years were slipping away from them like a wet bar of soap.

Right out of their grasp, Caitlin was sliding—into what, Barlow could hardly fathom. What would posses a young woman who would never have to rely on a man for anything to perform sexual favors in a school hallway? What world was she living in? Their oldest had sailed through these years—sports, schoolwork, PlayStation. His world had been straightforward, and Barlow had believed this to be evidence of the invincibility his wealth provided. He closed his eyes as he swallowed more scotch. With his gift to focus, he chased from his lids the image of her on her knees and instead played across them her broad smile, the one she used to get when playing with Mel- lie. He let his ears remember her infectious laugh, more like a child’s silly giggle, and he thought now how he would sometimes think the sound was coming from Mellie and not Caitlin at all. Those days were months gone, but he would not believe they were over. This was a problem. A glitch. And though he recognized the arrogance his conclusion implied, it came nonetheless. He had accumulated over a billion dollars in wealth by the age of forty-five. This problem had a solution, and he was hell-bent on finding it.

THE LIVINGSTONS

It was a full closet. That was not the problem. Actually, it was more than a closet, at eight feet by fifteen. With plush cream carpeting, adjustable track lighting, and its own temperature control, it was an actual room by any reasonable measure outside of Wilshire, Connecticut. Standing at its epicenter, surrounded by an absurd amount of clothing and footwear, and now overwhelmed by her own indecision, Sara Livingston wondered where else a room such as this would be demeaned to closet status. Only in Wilshire, Connecticut, it seemed. And it was keeping to scale with the six-thousand- square-foot house, the same one that had turned out to be unlivable after all and was now under construction. That was a whole other story. Closet? Room? What did it matter? That this closet-room was occupying her thoughts to such a degree was, she knew, one last (and entirely futile) attempt to distract herself from the task at hand.

She should have had it down after four months, the wardrobe choices for a Wilshire mom. Neat slacks, button-down shirt for school pickup. Black stretch pants with a T-back sports shirt for exercise classes (if she ever found time for them). And for the present occasion, the nursery school benefit, that evasive sexy formal. The trick here was the “sexy” part. She had the body for it—long legs, moderate height, a cute light brown bob, and healthy C-cup breasts (all hers)—but that did not help with the choices. Short skirt? Low neckline? Bare shoulders? Stiletto heals with lots of straps, shoes that cried out for attention, ?rst to the ankle, and then, of course, to the leg? For once – Christ, is it too much to ask? – she wanted to fade into the backdrop, go unnoticed.

But for Sara, sexy formal was more complicated than it seemed. It was one thing to be sexy, and quite another to be slutty. To be slutty, or not, was currently the domain of a small clique of Wilshire women who had snatched it up as the latest fashion trend when they’d grown tired of seventies-retro. It was their trademark, a stake inside some invisible hierarchy that Sara did not fully understand. But it seemed to indicate that they had risen above the discretion of others in this town. If they wanted to wear thigh-high leather boots and thick black eyeliner to pick up their preschoolers, then by God, they were going to do just that.

This was her conclusion, after much analysis (and analyzing her new environment had risen to the point of obsession), that there was, in fact, an invisible hierarchy. It was not strictly based on wealth, though wealth was a prerequisite. Social connections seemed to be of equal importance, and getting them required a certain level of wealth. It was confounding to Sara, who had a degree in journalism from Columbia and, until moving to Connecticut, had thought herself a capable analyst of the world around her. Her pedigree aside, there was an art to rising through the ranks in Wilshire that still eluded her after months of astute and careful observation. She had stormed into this town with high expectations. This was a place of educated people, where even the stay-home moms were former professionals, well traveled, and in many cases, transplants from Manhattan like herself. They were just like her, and yet no matter what she did, she could not manage to be just like them. Every decision she’d made from day one had been wrong. First, it was the car she’d chosen. A red minivan. Minivans were, apparently, out. In were monstrous three-row SUVs: Lexus, Mercedes, Cadillac.

After the car, it was the choice of decorator, then the choice of every- thing the decorator had shown her. She’d gone with French country when old European was in, chunky white dishes when delicate china was back in favor. And the deer that roamed as freely as New York pigeons had devoured every flower she had planted. Now she had bare stems when everyone else managed to keep flowers.

She had adjusted her goals within the ?rst month. Her new aim was modest. She had no need to be Rosalyn Barlow—Wilshire’s reigning queen – or even to befriend her, for that matter. What she now wanted was not to be noticed. And at the moment, that meant choosing something on the sexy scale that wouldn’t cross the line.

She loosened the sash of her silk robe as she walked to the built-in drawers containing her undergarments. She pulled open the drawer with the panties and thongs, and made the ?rst decision of the night. Panties, no question. After fighting with her contractor over the price of crown molding, then driving two hours to pick out antique light fixtures for the new living room, and ending her day by spending more than sixty dollars on gas, she just didn’t have it in her to tolerate a string up her ass.

The bra would be more difficult. Low-cut padded, low-cut push-up, strapless, crisscross, lace, cotton, nylon. Going braless was not an option, though she imagined one day after she’d mastered this universe and risen sufficiently among the ranks, it would be, and would go nicely with the fuck-me boots and black eyeliner. Ugh!

She was hanging up the robe when she heard the voice through the open door.

“What time is this thi—?”

Nick Livingston was in midsentence when he noticed his wife, nearly naked under the bright lights.

“Oooh, laalaa.”

Sara managed a smile as her husband entered the closet, his hands reaching out for her, and a look on his face that belonged to a teenage boy seeing his ?rst pair of tits. He was almost in a full-on grope when she gently pushed him away.

“We don’t have time, honey,” she said in a playful way, the way she might if she actually had an ounce of energy to be interested in his advances.

“Come on, Sara. We could christen the closet.” He reached in with his head and kissed her neck, then ran his hand along the inside of her thigh.

Sara studied his face for the signs of kind deception. Could he really feel this way after three years and one demanding toddler? But what she saw instead was a handsome forty-one-year-old man who was turned on at the sight of his wife. Bright blue eyes, dark hair, the deadly combination that had lured her from her life into marriage and motherhood, and an easy way that was as foreign to her as it was seductive. He pulled her to him with a soft hand against her bare back, and she closed her eyes, hoping to be transformed, transported from this place to another she could hardly remember. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she let out a sigh.

“It’s a closet-room,” she muttered into the fold of his collar, and he laughed out loud, making her believe that he was still her comrade though he had been raised in Wilshire and had returned to it like a fish back to water. “It’s a little early for a christening. Did you see all the work they didn’t do to day?” Sara started to pull away, her mind turning to Roy the Contractor and his piss-poor construction crew that was taking them for a ride and prolonging her daily misery of living in dust and chaos. She waited for him to respond, to tell her that he saw it, too—that it was horrible, and of course, how could a person think of anything else when there was such trouble underfoot? She had her list of complaints, which she wanted to unleash into the space between them, and she waited for him to extend the invitation.

But none was forthcoming. Instead, Nick released his arms from around her waist and said nothing, though his disappointment and bewilderment stopped her from saying more. She felt her shoulders drop. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding him again, and he squeezed her tighter. The feel of his cool starched shirt against her bare skin made her feel exposed beyond her apparent nudity, and it was surprisingly sexy. She reached for his belt and released the clasp. “Let’s christen the closet.” Nick hesitated, confused by the third mood shift in the scope of mere seconds, but she only kissed him harder, forcing out of the room the worries over the house, her clothing, and dishes and other nonsense. They fell to the floor, her bare body under his against the soft carpet.

He reached for the buttons on his shirt, but she pulled his hands away.

“Leave it on,” she whispered. “Leave everything on.” She reached down and unzipped his pants, then pulled him inside her as her legs wrapped around the small of his back. With the lights glaring down upon them, Sara kept her eyes open, finding their image in the mirror that covered the length of the inner door. Nick in his suit, her beneath him on the floor in a moment of unexpected abandon was like a bolt of electricity short-circuiting the wires in her head. She could almost imagine that they weren’t in Wilshire at all. Reaching her hands around her husband, she grabbed hold of him. “I love your ass,” she said, losing herself in a kind of passionate irreverence that felt forbidden in her new life. She wet his ear with her tongue and smiled as he moaned.

“Oh, Christ! Say that again….”

“I love your ass…your rock-hard, massive ass…”

“Christ!”

He was gone, and she was quick to follow, an unusual occurrence of late. Something about her private defiance, even for a few stolen moments, had lent a heightened sense of excitement, like screwing in the backseat of a car. It was a strange rush. Good, she thought, though she was equally disconcerted because it had nothing to do with her husband. Her mind felt as foreign to her as the thongs that rode up her butt all day long. Nick was happily oblivious as he rested on top of her, catching his breath.

“I love this closet-room,” he said.

Sara smiled, then kissed his neck as he nuzzled into hers. She fought to make conversation from thoughts that were spinning recklessly in her head. “Is this another suburban secret? Having big closets for doing the deed?”

Nick laughed, relaxed. Contented. “After that, I think it will be from now on. Let’s just burn that bed. I mean, who needs it?”

They stayed there for a while, and as the time passed, Sara grew increasingly unnerved. Beyond her altered state and the abduction of her entire being by alien forces, she felt the question coming.

“Do you think we did it? Did we make a baby?”

He was so careful to hide his anticipation, his growing worry that they might be joining so many of their peers who couldn’t have a second child, and the fact that he was being considerate felt like a giant knife of guilt plunging into her gut.

“We’ll see.” Her tone was encouraging but also dismissive, and Nick quickly changed the subject.

“I’d better get my rock-hard ass in the shower so we can be on time.” He kissed her and got up from the floor.

“Thanks.” Sara smiled again as she stood up, pulling the robe around her. She watched him turn the corner, heard the shower come on. Still, she couldn’t move from where she stood. Her head was swimming—drowning, really—in a dull, unrelenting anxiety. Finally, she ran her hands briskly across her cheeks and turned toward the enemy she had been so terrified to face. Embracing the sense of defeat fully now, she pulled on clothing, shoes, jewelry.

“I’m going down,” she yelled into the bathroom as she walked past their bed, ignoring the blue-and-green flowered spread, the one that matched the pale yellow walls and plaid draperies. Shit. She didn’t even like French country.

Walking quickly to outpace the thoughts that were following close behind, Sara made her way to Annie’s bedroom across the hall and peeked her head inside.

“She’s asleep.” Their Brazilian nanny, who went by the name Nanna, was standing by Annie’s bed, looking over the small child.

“I was going to kiss her good night,” Sara said.

“Oh,” Nanna answered, her face taking on a hint of pity. “You’re too late.”

Sara felt a vise around her temples as she nodded and forced a smile. “We won’t be late.”

Nanna smiled back and nodded but did not leave the room. And as Sara hurried down the hall to the back stairs, she closed her ears to Nanna’s soft humming. She focused instead on gathering her belongings and fitting them into her clutch purse—keys, phone, lipstick from her other bag. She reached the kitchen and caught a heel in the plastic that covered the floor. Pulling off her shoes, Sara passed through the room to the back hall, where she set the shoes on top of more plastic, this time covering the antique pine benches that no one ever sat on and were, of course, very last year. The powder room door was closed, though this did little to keep out the dust and other debris from the tearing down of walls and floors in the neighboring rooms, and she fought not to notice as she went inside, closing herself in. She flipped the toilet lid closed and sat down, hanging her head between her knees, face in hands. She wanted to cry then, for so many things, but she held it back. There was nothing to be done tonight. Not about her marriage, her child, her ripped-apart, poorly decorated house, or her red van. Or the fact that she could not find one moment of happiness in a life with a two-million-dollar-a-year price tag, the life her husband slaved to give her.

Tonight, she would go to the party, an important party. She would make nice, safe conversation and look for the cheapest auction item to help a school that needed no help. She would drive home with her husband, force herself to say nothing about the people who silently judged her, then pray for sleep. And in the morning, when her head was clear, she would think about what was wrong with her life. And if she found nothing, she would think about what might be wrong with her.

She took a breath and opened her purse. There was a hidden compartment with a zipper, which she opened slowly, methodically. She pulled out the contents—a round case with the multicolored pills that were keeping her body from becoming pregnant, fooling her husband. She flipped it open and checked the ones already taken. Then she popped out the one scheduled for this day. It was a tiny little pill, but the lie that it implicitly held was undeniable, and as she dropped it on her tongue and began to swallow it down, she could feel it sticking in her throat.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

“Are you still there?”

Amanda Jamison was on the line waiting for her answer, but Caitlin was busy making the adjustments. They were gone, out of sight. The golf cart with her father and younger siblings had pulled into the garage, and she was, mercifully, alone in the yard. In an instant, the taps were turned back on and the stream of new feelings was again flowing inside her, washing away the anger, guilt, and shame. All at once, the wicked girl, the ungrateful daughter, the poor role model receded with the sound of the garage door closing, and of her friend’s voice.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

And she was, fully. Caitlin Barlow was back from her alternate personality, the rude, cynical, unfeeling monster that lived inside the mansion she was now gazing at from the swing that hung from a giant oak. It was cold. But she didn’t care. With a bare foot dangling from the wooden seat, she breathed in the smell of the decaying leaves and settled back into herself.

“So…you didn’t answer me. Did you…you know…finish the business?” The anticipation oozed from Amanda’s voice, and it made Caitlin smile. In spite of the trouble she’d had to weather, this confirmed it. She was now firmly entrenched within their elite circle of friends.

“It was so close, I swear. I mean, if Mr. Carter hadn’t come in, it was over.”

“Really?” Amanda said, begging for details. “How could you tell?”

“You know—from the stuff you told me.”

“Hard, harder, then…”

“The grand finale…”

“Exactly. Only no finale for Kyle. Went home with a boner. Poor baby.” Amanda’s tone was mocking, though they both knew Kyle Conrad was immune to their ridicule.

Caitlin smiled again, her mind now filled with the contours of the boy’s face, his broad shoulders, and the smell of his cologne, which she had managed to capture on her not-so-subtle descent to her knees. Thinking of how awkward she’d been, how unsure—downright terrified, if she were being honest—made her shiver deep inside her body.

“Yeah, poor baby,” she managed to say through the devastating embarrassment she was now reliving.

“Well…don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll get another chance, and he’s usually really quick. So how long are you grounded?” There was a pause, a long hesitation as Caitlin connected the dots. Of course, idiot, she thought to herself. You’re not the only one.

“Two weekends, including this one.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.” Caitlin managed a response, though her mind was stuck somewhere between Kyle’s smile as he stroked her hair, and the image of her new best friend getting him off in some hidden corner of their world.

“Sucks for you. Listen, I gotta get ready….”

“Yeah. No problem. Text me when you get back?”

“Course I will. Love ya,” Amanda said. Then she was gone.

When Caitlin flipped the phone shut and saw the time, a heavy weight ?lled her body, and with it came the churning. It was a part of her now, as much as anything. As much as the exhaustion that crept in after lunch hour. As much as the hunger that she tolerated day in and day out, and sometimes in the night as she tried to sleep. It was the churning of the new. Her new friendship with Amanda and the informal club she was now a part of. Her new discovery of Kyle Conrad, and the feelings he stirred up. And at moments like this one, when she teetered between this new world and her life inside that house, it was driven by the impossibility of living in both.

She could see it in their eyes, each and every one of them. Her mother was more pissed off than worried. Cait was now interfering with her plan—the plan that had worked so well with her older brother, who was now a jock at Choate. Keep them busy, keep them on a schedule, and they will grow like structures off an architect’s drawings. Cait’s refusal to try out for varsity squash, her inability, which was taken as unwillingness, to get A’s at the Wilshire Academy meant mommy dearest would need a different plan. Different drawings. Such a bother with all her charity work and luncheons and, of course, the incessant baby-making.

Her father, on the other hand, was more worried than pissed off. The vertical lines between his bushy eyebrows were becoming deep caverns drawn into his face. Nothing a little Botox couldn’t fix, but Daddy was hardly the type for that, and even if he was, this thought did little to alleviate the guilt that was thrown into the brew that had infected Caitlin’s blood. She was Daddy’s little girl, his ?rst girl, and the only one until Mellie was born. After her brother left, she’d been Daddy’s best buddy, then an occasional buddy. Once upon a time, she’d loved board games, cards in particular, and he had taught her to play blackjack. Once upon a time, that had made her feel edgy and grown-up, listening to him talk about Las Vegas, how he would take her there when she was older. He’d taught her to drive, let her peel around on the grass in his coveted Creamsicle Corvette.

It wasn’t fair that he expected this never to change. She was fourteen. Card games were the equivalent of a merry-go-round to the Amanda-Kyle roller coaster. The ?rst time she’d broken a plan, he looked like a child who’d discovered the cruel farce of Santa Claus. Fuck him, anyway. He’d canceled on her for business meetings before his retirement. And what? Now that he was bored out of his mind, she was supposed to provide entertainment, like his cars and scotch and arm-fart contests with her little brothers? This was her life, her de?ning moment that would dictate everything for the next four years. She had been a social nobody since before she could remember, the blanks having been filled in by her older brother. Remember when we had to beg kids to come to Caitie’s birthday party? Remember when Caitie puked in kindergarten and no one would talk to her? Even the Barlow name hadn’t saved her from herself all those years, and those were the years that had set the stage.

It was cruel how this was sorted out in towns like this one. Preschool, lower school, middle, and upper. They had grown up side by side, the Amandas of Wilshire and the Caitlins—the ones who lacked that something, the secret ingredient that was necessary to be in and not out, though what that ingredient was, Cait still had no clue. At ?rst blush, she had the obvious things, some of them in spades. Enormous estate. Private plane. Servants. World renowned father, socially connected mother. As for her appearance, even in a place like Wilshire, where you’d have to search the maid’s quarters to find a fat chick, Caitlin Barlow was attractive. Petite like her mother. Skinny legs. Blond hair, long and straight. Blue eyes. Straight teeth. Adequate tits for a fourteen-year-old. Clearly showing potential. Not too smart, not a retard either. By all accounts, Cait should have been popular.

And yet, she had not been surprised by her fate. There was, she had observed over the course of her school years, a kind of calling that was felt within before it could be outwardly displayed. It was a calling that she had always lacked, though she had tried in so many different ways to fake it, to pretend that she was born to be admired, to be coveted. Amanda Jamison had possessed it since their ?rst days in pre-K. Long, curly brown hair, pretty sundresses, she had carried herself like a princess from the start. And her admirers had fallen into place and never left her side. It was, Caitlin knew, something expected of the Barlow children, and her brother had pulled it off with his usual effortless brilliance. It showed on his face, in his gait and smile. Even with defeat, rejection, momentary failure, it never left him. One look, and you knew he had it, that he felt it inside.

What Cait felt inside, she was certain, could not be anything like that. Confusion, insecurity, and doubt, a deadly potion that ran through her blood and invaded every cell. When she looked at her life—at any piece of it—she saw a senseless jumble of tasks and imaginary hoops, of distraction and blindness, and it left her with a giant pit that was filled alternately with anxiety and resignation. Not exactly the makeup of a born leader. No one made sense to her. Not her older brother, who filled his time with sports and video games. Not her mother, whose eyes drew her in but left her with a greater mystery each time. Barlow was a child himself, brilliant they said, but now somehow happy rolling around on the floor with the babies. He said there was joy in a hard day’s work, in achieving great things. Even little things. And yet, when the money rolled in, he had retired.

There was a chance for her now. He should be proud. All of them should. Weren’t they the ones who scowled at her old friends? Weren’t they the ones who pushed her to “expand her social circle”? She had done it, found a way in, and now they were disappointed because they didn’t like what she’d had to do. How could they not have known the price of admission?

The anger was powerful as it poured from a well inside her, a place she had never known existed. She let out a moan and closed her eyes. The anger was surpassed only by the agony—the sum of all these loose and scattered pieces. Pure agony, churning and churning. Standing on the brink of a social breakthrough. Soaring with possibilities. The thoughts she allowed herself at night in her bed. Kyle. His hand sweeping through her hair. Was it really possible to want to crawl inside another a person and be lost forever? Had he stroked Amanda’s hair? Would he ever notice her again? Then there was the dismissive way her mother looked at her, the look that had once been laced with pride, narcissistic as it might have been. It had felt good at the time. And her father—was that the worst piece? Or was it Mellie, who sulked incessantly because Cait refused to play. But how could she, really? How could she sit on the floor and pretend to be the purple Pretty Pony when she wanted to scream until it all stopped? And how could she ever enjoy the turn her life had taken when she had to go back inside that house—right now, as a matter of fact—and every day after this one and feel the weight of their disapproval, their disappointment and sadness that she wasn’t performing as expected? What would they do if she were dead? Somehow the family would go on, mourning their dear saint Caitlin and accepting visitors with plates of food (prepared by chefs, of course—Wilshire didn’t do homemade), like at her grandmother’s funeral. After it was said and done, they would carry on, filling in whatever gap she left. Why couldn’t they just do that now? Pretend she didn’t exist and let her get on with her life?

“Cait!” The boss sounded pissed as she screamed from the kitchen sliders. Now she would have to pretend to babysit while the nannies supervised her every move. At least it was past seven. All that was left was TV and bed. She could survive that. She shoved it down, the new Cait, and brought out her shield. Sarcastic Caitlin. Indifferent Caitlin. Typical teen Caitlin. The teenstranger, as her father now called her. She willed herself off the swing. The ground was getting cold, the grass starting to stiffen from it. With frozen toes, she began her journey back to her family, screaming as she walked.

“I’m coming!”